


Smile

by abbeyangel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester/Reader - Freeform, Gen, Gender Neutral, Sadness, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 19:32:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2703878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbeyangel/pseuds/abbeyangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When life gets you down, you really wonder if it's really worth living through any more. It happens to everyone-- and everyone needs someone to be there to cheer them up and help them though their dark times. Luckily for you, Dean cares about you more than you do yourself.</p>
<p>-- --</p>
<p>A little piece I wrote a while back, for anyone interested in having Dean Winchester help them when they really just need someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smile

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading this all sad and upset at something, I really hope this helps!

     It had been a long week.

     Every day seemed to drag on--seconds felt like minutes, minutes hours and hours felt as if they were days of their own. Each seemed to pull you down further. Your smile drooped into a soggy representation for your lack of happiness or drive, you wondered how you could even lift your feet from the ground any more. Days like these always made you wonder—

     —Does anyone care?

     You passed people on the streets, giving you looks as if you were ill. Keeping their distance like you had a disease. It began to show; the weight on your shoulders visible not only to you any more. Now it was a show for all to see.  
And everyone still kept walking.  
     Even your friends seemed to shy away from you, maybe it was just your imagination. Hell, it probably was. It didn’t stop you from feeling alone. Feeling like nobody cared enough to even stop to talk—to try and get you to smile again.  
     That exact thought was what crossed your mind as you walked in the front door of your Motel room. Dropping your bag to the bed that never seemed heavy until today, and managing the energy to hit the fluffy pillows with a heavy, muffled smack that was lost to your own thoughts.

“Hey.”

     A sound from the front door broke the silence, you’d forgotten to shut it behind you. And there he was—Dean Winchester, leaning in your door frame. Staring across the small span of distance between you, closing it as he stepped closer to your ghost like existence. His smile twisted to a low frown as he noticed the wetness of your eyes, the crease of your lips. He knew you were upset.

" ... you okay?"

     You protest, claiming that you’re tired. It’s been a long day and you need your rest, with a nod as if he was going to comply by waving his hand and stepping backward the way he came. Instead, he surprises you. Staring the entire time—intent on your flickering candle of hope.

"What’s goin’ on?"

     Nothing, was of course the answer. A muttered word that was some sort of plea for him to see that it was in fact something. Something you’d been carrying for too long by yourself.  
     And at the same time, a beg for him to leave.  
     You don’t want to talk, you continue, eyes pleading and quickly gesturing toward the door.

     But he doesn’t move.

"That's a load'a bull, c’mere,"

     Dean's drawl is paired with a playful roll of his eyes, bringing you up to rest in his arms. Finally, some feeling rushes to your finger tips first, slowly consuming your body until you began to feel somewhat... normal. A normalcy that easily comes when someone sees your struggle, when someone cares enough to try and help.  
     You can feel sudden relief running up and down your back in the same pattern traced by his careful hand. Worn fingers bringing a warmth through you that you thought you’d lost forever.  
     The Hunter only holds you for a while, letting you rest in his arms and work out whatever it was you needed to in your own head.      He gives you a quick look to let you know that if you felt like talking, you could. Put your cards face up on the table for someone, anyone, to see.

     Despite his best efforts, you still don’t feel like talking.

     After at least ten minutes, the room softens. Everything seems marginally brighter. More colourful. As if the world had meaning, as if there was a reason to lift your feet from the ground again. Just as you feel that hit of happiness from your cloud that had been trailing you for days, Dean clears his throat. He holds you still, pulling you back just enough so you two could talk. His eyes looking straight into yours, with a noble confidence that never wavered.

"Whenever you wanna open up," he says softly, patting your back with the speed and touch of a feather cutting the air with a grace that only that of the Angels could have. "I’ve got’cha."

     You nod after a moment, almost tearing up as he stands up to leave. The one person that cared enough to ask—who wasn’t angry that you didn’t feel up to it, and didn’t shun you when you explained that you didn’t want to talk. Dean Winchester, standing not two feet away from you, lifting the weight off your shoulders. He was always there, with a smile crossing his face that brought the world back in a rushing quarter. Things started looking up, time passed normally and you felt like you could breathe again.

     As he walks to the door, your eyes follow his every move. Abrupt to your vision, his body turns back to you. His mouth cracked with that classic Dean Winchester cockish grin.

"I'm gonna grab somethin' to eat,"

     The blond explains, jutting his thumb backward with a questioning glance.

"You comin’?"

     And at that moment, you regained all the hope that the world had forced you to give up.


End file.
